


Shameless Company

by peppydragon



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, Language, Pining, Reflection, Short, Unrequited Love, hancock pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15983054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppydragon/pseuds/peppydragon
Summary: Hancock uses a moment of respite to consider the relationship he can never have.





	Shameless Company

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or referenced storylines here!

* * *

 

He is always watching her, even when she doesn't need it. He is reasonably sure she knows that he does it - but then again she never says anything, never raises a brow at him, never rolls her eyes when she catches his gaze lingering on her as they make camp.

She's an intriguing woman - that's what he tells himself. He likes watching her because he is fascinated by things that confound him. He keeps his eyes focused on her back much of the day, so when they finally settle for the night, he can't help but study her face, the way her hands move. Out in the 'Wealth, she's alert, careful, every muscle in her body poised and taut like a bow's string. But here in Goodneighbor, or in any other settlement, she is more careless. She drops things. She hits her head - with stunning frequency - everywhere except Sanctuary Hills, somehow forgetting the beams of hodgepodge buildings are lower now. She rolls in the grass with Dogmeat outside of her onetime family home. She styles her hair every morning for no other reason than coveting the small sense of normalcy.

She is a different person when she's alone, when she thinks no one is paying attention. She is sorrowful and playful in equal measures, a neurotic mess to watch, but somehow so captivating.

She's an intriguing woman, this vaultie.

Once upon a time, Hancock had a family. Once upon a time, Hancock realized that he wasn't worth that family. Or his life. Maybe it was when McDonough ordered the slaughter of the ghouls in Diamond City. Maybe it was when he got addicted to chems. Maybe it was around the time he decided being a ghoul was a fitting punishment for his weakness. His wickedness.

Once upon a time, she'd had a family, too. She doesn't talk about it much - once after sharing an ill-advised whiskey bottle and a handful of mentats with him somewhere near Concord. Once while drinking in Valentine's office, her chair close to his and her words directed at a somber, compassionate Nick.

She had a husband. Hancock pretends he doesn't remember the name of the man whose ring she still wears on her right pointer finger. Hancock pretends that he doesn't hear her reverently whisper his name some nights when she thinks Hancock is asleep, when she tries to relieve her loneliness with her hand.

She had a son. Has a son. She talks about him more frequently than the husband, for obvious reasons. She once told him - sloppy from drinking with Cait, her fingers running through her hair, eyes glassy and so goddamn beautiful - that her son was the only reason she was still alive. The only reason she hasn't stepped on a mine just to fucking end it, just to forget the horror her once-gorgeous life is.

It has been over a year that Hancock's followed her. Over a goddamn year. It's always been them, side-by-side since they met. Her choice in his shameless companionship still confuses him, just like her entire existence does, but he doesn't question it. Doesn't have the guts to question it. He guesses that he's still weak - following her around abandoned military bases and raider-infested outposts, hoping that if he doesn't challenge it, she won't realize her mistake.

He'll die for her; he knows that. It's stupid, and he's stupid, but stupid is something that kind of happens when you fall for someone. Suddenly, one day or night, you realize that the other person is your everything. Can't imagine living without them. Can't comprehend the choices this very woman has made, to go on without her fitted puzzle piece.

But in the end, it probably doesn't matter how he feels, because she still whispers to another man at night. A man who can't keep her warm anymore, but it somehow doesn't matter to her. A man who can't reset her knee while she grits past the pain, her nails digging into his skin. A man who can't take a bullet for her.

But he'd already done that, Hancock has to remind himself sometimes. He'd taken the bullet, and left her with the job of saving their son. It wasn't a fair trade, not that there was anything Nate could have done or could do now to remedy his wife's burden.

Nate. Hancock feels horrible every time the name comes up, bringing acid to his throat and an ache to his chem-addled body. He wishes the name didn't sound so wholesome. He wishes he didn't know Nate had been handsome, charismatic, and funny. He wishes he didn't know that Nate had been a soldier, a great one at that, and suffered from PTSD and night terrors as a result. Hancock wishes that he knew nothing about Nate so that he could hate him, hate how the memory of him clouds his wife's judgment, makes her falter, makes her sob after she brings herself to an orgasm when she thinks Hancock is asleep.

But Hancock does know these things, and he can't help the way it makes him insane with the roiling waves of loathing and pity for the star-crossed lovers.

He looks up in time to see her meandering up the stairs, glancing toward his office and smiling when she sees him. "Hey," she greets him, then nods to Fahrenheit, receiving a sigh in response.

"Time to hit the road?" he drawls, hoping and fearing that she might choose someone else, that she might take pity on him. But he knows deep down that he won't stop thinking about her if she does - that he'll just be worried Preston will send her on one too many runs. That she will need to protect Cait from her own recklessness. That McCready will fuck up, that his bullets might not cover her well enough. That Dogmeat goes down safeguarding her, that the horror of losing her dog might shake her for a split-second too long.

There are too many variables with the others. Hancock knows her. He knows how she slides between decrepit cars with more fluidity than can be followed. He knows how she slips off to tend to her needs with minimal warning. He knows that she likes exploring rooms by herself and picking safes just to prove she can. He knows that she prefers complete silence in the morning, that she wakes up bristled and irritated, that she needs a swig of vodka to get her going. He knows what breaths mean she's exhausted, which ones mean she needs a chem break, and when she's aroused. He knows almost everything about her, except all of the things she keeps close, under lock and key, never letting others see more than fragments.

Like Nate.

Goddamn fucking Nate.

"Yep," she says with the voice that gently rasps, giving her smoking habit away. "You good?" she checks, as she always does, her smile lighting up a face too often weighed down with pain and fear. She's well rested - glowing, even, if Hancock was prone to those types of observations.

Which he is, not that he'd tell anyone.

"Right as rain, sister," he says, moving around his desk and grabbing for his gear, already resupplied with chems, liquor, simpaks, and ammo. "Fahrenheit-"

"I got it," Fahrenheit mumbles as if she's annoyed at the idea of governing for him. She isn't; she loves it, but Hancock is gracious enough to let her pretend. "Don't die, I guess," she adds, standing as if to wish them goodbye but hesitating, freezing awkwardly like a beautiful, terrifying statue with an itch she can't scratch.

Hancock tips his hat to Fahrenheit, following the vaultie out of Goodneighbor, watching her six as he always does. As he will do until she gets better companions or grows tired of his flirtations, his watchful gaze.

She won't. Hancock knows her better than anyone, after all.

 

* * *

 


End file.
